


rhenium

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-15 08:31:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Jack’s Mark rolls and twists up over his left bicep and spreads over his heart. The thick, dark ink loops in large circles with smaller, solid circles dotting each ring in no particular pattern. In the middle of the ring, right over his heart, in shining gold lettering against the solid black ink is a solitary S.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Soulmate 'verse that I thought of. It's going to be a series of connected one-shots but in no particular order; they just all take place in this universe.

Jack’s Mark rolls and twists up over his left bicep and spreads over his heart. The thick, dark ink loops in large circles with smaller, solid circles dotting each ring in no particular pattern. In the middle of the ring, right over his heart, in shining gold lettering against the solid black ink is a solitary S. 

He had thought, for a few brief months, that Sara was his soulmate. She didn’t have a particular reaction to his Mark, her fingers curling over each ring in fascination. But despite the ardor of their kisses and her hopes that she was the one, the ink remained dormant and unmoving on his skin and they both knew. 

And then he met her: Samantha Carter. 

He notices her before she notices him. She’s blonde and beautiful and he can hear her laugh from across the coffeeshop where he and Teal’c are enjoying their post-run coffee. The sound of her voice makes him look up and once he lays eyes on her, he can’t stop looking; can’t stop thinking about going over there and striking up a conversation; can’t stop thinking about bringing her into his life and hoping that some of her warmth will seep into his. 

But she beats him to the punch. 

On the way to the counter for a refill, she stops dead and looks at his Mark, her head tilted to the side as she studies it. He shifts self-consciously and wishes he had worn a shirt with sleeves. It’s not exactly taboo to display your Mark, but polite company keeps it carefully hidden from view. Marks are sacred like that. 

She smiles at him, lifting her chin. “Rhenium, nice.”

He furrows his brow, confused, looking between the woman and Teal’c who is watching the interaction quietly, something sparkling and knowing in his soft gaze. Teal’c sips at his coffee and flicks his eyes back to the woman in front of them, encouraging O’Neill to use his words. 

“I’m sorry?”

She laughs, easy and free and he knows he’s a goner–her laugh is more beautiful now that she’s closer to him. She’s more beautiful now that he can see her more clearly: light blue eyes and a full mouth and a kindness, a gentleness to her that makes him want to curl around her, protect her and keep her safe. 

The woman is still staring at his Mark and she makes a move as if to touch it before looking at him for permission. He nods and she grins. 

“Rhenium,” she states, her finger hovering over his Mark, “is my favorite element on the periodic table. And this is the Bohr diagram for it. See?”

Her finger presses to the ink and they both gasp at the contact. Their eyes meet for a moment–surprise and heat and shock–before they return their gaze to his Mark. The ink is shifting beneath his skin, swirling and moving, evidently awakened by her touch.

His Soulmate’s touch.

“Holy Hannah,” she breathes out. It’s terribly endearing and he wants to kiss the words from her mouth.

The rings on his shoulder begin to rotate, the solid spheres also moving and rotating, and Sam laughs, covering her mouth with her hand, eyes wet. “It’s rhenium. That’s–that’s wild. See? These are the electrons on these outer rings.” Her fingertips dance over each sphere, pressing slightly against the skin. She drags her fingers around the thick rings, continuing. “And these are the electron shells–each shell can hold a maximum number of electrons. It looks like they’re rotating, so you must have a nucleus somewhere on you and–Oh.”

He lifts a hand and covers his heart, nodding. She smiles softly at him and he feels his heart thump painfully beneath his hand. His nucleus–his center–is the woman before him, his entire Mark rotating around her, his Mark a representation of her favorite something. Jack feels suddenly grounded in a way he never has before; feels warm and centered and focused. 

“Marks aren’t exactly subtle,” he says with a wry grin. “I’m gonna take a guess and say your name starts with an S.” 

Her eyes go wide and her gaze drops down to where his hand covers his heart and he really, really shouldn’t already be thinking of taking her home and letting her explore this Bohr diagram the way she probably wants to. Jack does his best to not envision her pink tongue tracing over each ring, her teeth nipping at each electron, her lips pressing a kiss to her initial on his heart. 

Shaking her head a little and throwing a glance at Teal’c–who was smiling softly at the pair of them over the rim of his mug–the blonde bites her lip and sticks her hand out. “I’m Samantha Carter. You can call me Sam.”

Jack takes her hand, noting the way their hands slot together, and doesn’t let go, just holds her. “I’m Jack O’Neill. And I don’t know how to tell you this, Samantha Carter, but, uh,” he looks around conspiratorially, eyes light and mischievous. “I think you might be my Soulmate.”

Sam laughs and nods, eyes bright with tears and happiness. It’s a momentous thing–finding your Soulmate–and here they are: perfect strangers in a coffeeshop, holding hands, and talking about electrons and elements over coffee. 

Sam leans in close and matches his whisper. “I think you’re right.” 

The world fades away for a half second and all Jack can see is Sam: bright and beautiful and wonderfully, perfectly his.

It feels good to belong to someone. The S on his chest burns and the rings of his Mark turn, revolving around his heart, around Sam. 

It’s a start.


	2. 2

Their first date had involved a lot more kissing than she had originally planned. The rumors around the power of the Mark had intimidated her. Samantha Carter relied on reason and structure and order. But your soulmate–the pull of the Bond–made you want to toss those things out the window. 

But Jack had picked her up with a boyish grin, bouncing on his heels, and offered her his arm with a flourish and escorted her to the local science museum–a place she had mentioned in passing during their first meeting at the coffeeshop. She’d mentioned it briefly–explained that she recognized his Mark’s design from one of the exhibits–but it had clearly stuck with him and now here they were: talking softly between exhibits and trying not to steal too long of a glance at the other.

All night they’d been teasing the other–knuckles brushing as they stood side by side, tilted their heads, and read the plaques at each exhibit. Jack’s hand had been a constant presence on the small of her back, warm and reassuring, guiding her from exhibit to exhibit. She wasn’t sure if the hum beneath her skin, the one making her want to press herself against him and never let him go, was the Mark or just him.

Despite the Mark on his shoulder swirling and moving happily with each fleeting contact, Sam had been nervous, babbling and correcting or clarifying the information provided to the public. Women didn’t get a matching Mark until their soulmate claimed them and with Jack O’Neill’s easy smile and brown eyes and sharp tongue, she was more than a little nervous that in the morning she’d be left with no Mark and a broken heart.

But Jack didn’t look at her strangely when she confided in him that the museum was absolutely wrong and that is not how a wormhole works. Instead, he focused all of his attention on her and her heart sped up when she noticed his eyes dropping to her mouth on more than one occasion, his eyes shining with awe and appreciation.

The hum beneath her skin flared to life and she shifted, squeezing her thighs together.

As they approached a giant, neon representation of the periodic table of elements, Sam snuck her hand into Jack’s and tugged them both to rhenium where a heavy, metal-looking sample sits in the window–shining and silver and beautiful.

Jack grinned at her, reaching out to trace the Re on the table. “So, that’s our element.” He tilted his head, questioning. “Why this element?”

She blushed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s, well, it’s what I thought The Terminator was probably made out of and I had this thing for him when I was a teenager and–”

He couldn’t help it, he let out a bark of laughter. “The Terminator?” He stared at her in wonder and she squirmed under his gaze, cheeks flushing pink. Shaking his head softly, face lit up by the neon glow of the periodic table beside them, Jack lifted a hand to her face, brushing the back of his knuckles against the curve of her cheek. “Unbelievable. I’m competing against Schwarzenegger.”

At his touch, the hum beneath her skin intensified and she sucked in a breath, reaching up to catch his wrist and keep his hand against her skin, turning her cheek into his touch. The soft smile fell from his face, a serious, contemplative look taking its place. His eyes–dark and intense–dropped to her mouth and she felt her breath hitch. Beneath her fingers, his pulse hammered against the veins of his wrist and she fought the urge to suck at the steady thrum there.

Trembling, she reached her hand up to trace where she knew the rings of his Mark on his shoulder and chest would be. “No,” she said, softly. “No competition at all.”

Jack sucked in a breath and stepped closer, dragging his fingers down her cheek and jaw, curling beneath her chin and tilting her face up to him. He leaned down, lips just barely brushing hers.

His Mark beneath her hand felt hot and she shivered, tilting her head up.

“Can I kiss you, Sam?” 

“You better,” she whispered, curling her hand up over his shoulder and around his neck, tugging him down the rest of the way and bringing their mouths together.

The first thing she felt was overwhelming heat. He was hot all over–his mouth on hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth and stroking over her tongue and teeth and cheeks to categorize what made her sigh and groan and gasp and press herself into his arms. His hand cupped her cheek for a moment before sliding into her hair, tugging slightly and tilting her head back to open her further to him.

He was spice and cinnamon and coffee and an unbelievable sense of rightness filled her. The hum beneath her skin flared to life and heat spread across her body, suddenly aching for the man in her arms. The Mark beneath his shirt felt searingly hot to the touch and she knew–knew–there was no way she was waking up unmarked tomorrow morning. This man was it for her. This was her soulmate.

He groaned against her as her nails caught some of the ink of his Mark peeking out from beneath his shirt. “Sam,” he gasped, breaking away and looking wrecked–eyes wide and dark, hand hot and heavy on the back of her head, keeping them close.

The sound of her name on his lips–ragged and breathless–sent another jolt of warmth through her. 

He kissed her cheek and then ducked a little lower, nipping at her jaw line, and finally, pressed a kiss to the patch of skin beneath her ear. “If we aren’t careful,” he murmured, fingers scratching at her scalp in a way that caused her toes to curl. “We’re gonna give those kids a much, much more interactive anatomy class than they were bargaining for.”

She shuffled forward and pressed her face to his chest, hiding her blush. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. 

They stood there for a moment, wrapped in each other besides their element, quiet and content. Sam tried to work up the energy to panic at how fast they were moving, but she couldn’t be bothered. Not with Jack O’Neill pressed against her and the knowledge that the happy thrum of energy emanating from his Mark was because of her.

“You know what?” he asked, thoughtfully. 

She hummed against his chest in response and shivered when his lips dipped low by her ear.

“I think rhenium might by my favorite element, too.” 

Sam laughed and curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, leaning back and brushing her lips against his. She carefully sucked his bottom lip between her own and nipped, pressing forward and deepening the kiss when he gasped at the jolt of pain. His hands fell to her waist and drifted dangerously low, brushing the swell of her ass.

She nipped at his lips again and pulled back, grinning at the blissed out look on Jack’s face. Something warm unfurled within her chest–perhaps the knowledge that she put that look on his face–and she felt a burst of giddiness.

He slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, mumbling, “Arnold, who?” and pressed a kiss to her temple. She snaked her arm around his waist and pressed herself close, hiding her grin into his side.


	3. Chapter 3

They stay at the museum until it closes down, hands entwined (Jack hadn’t wanted to let her go, his hand reaching out to snag her fingers and keep her close). The security guard finds them in the back corner of the gift shop playing with the glow-in-the-dark stars and sticking them in varying constellations along the store display. The guard takes a look at the star stuck to the tip of Jack’s nose and Sam’s face, red with laughter, and rolls her eyes. “We’re closed.”

They buy the glow-in-the-dark stars quickly and leave in a fit of giggles and Sam is surprised at how badly she doesn’t want this date to end. Everything about being with Jack is easy and on the ride back to his house, the evening winding down, she finds her eyes drifting over his lean forearms, the sharp cut of his jaw, the dark impression of the Mark on his shoulder. 

She  _wants_  him.

His hand sneaks across the wide expanse of the truck bench and snags her hand with his own. She ducks her head and smiles but doesn’t pull away and holds his hand a little tighter. 

The truck rumbles into his driveway and he squeezes her hand, killing the engine. He hustles quickly from his side of the truck to hers, opening the door and offering her his hand, ever the gentleman. 

The door clicks softly behind her and he stands before her, visibly nervous. She leans back against his truck and he looks at her, eyes dark. 

“This is the part where I  _think_  I’m supposed to walk you to your car and ask when I can see you again. But,” he smiles at her, boyishly. “I really don’t want you to go.”

She reaches out and smooths a non-existent wrinkle on his shirt and curls her fingers into his shirt, tugging his closer so she’s trapped between the warmth of his body and his truck. 

There’s something about him--maybe it’s the Bond growing between them, maybe it’s just him--but she feels reckless and brave and wild. 

“Maybe you should invite me in for a drink,” she suggests, voice low and husky. 

He raises an eyebrow, head bowed and lips tantalizingly close, the Mark on his shoulder humming at the contact between them. “Sam,” he murmurs. “Come inside.”

In answer, she sighs and closes the distance between them, lips pressing over his and arms looping around his neck to drag him closer. It’s as electrifying as the kisses they’ve shared in the museum except now there’s no one around, no public indecency laws to stop him from sliding his hand up her shirt and back down to cup her ass an pull her against him; no reason at all that they shouldn’t ever, ever stop touching. 

He pulls away with a gasp, forehead pressing against hers, eyes closed and savoring the taste of her. She slips her hand into his--a perfect fit, something she’s marveled at all night--and ducks under his arm, tugging him back towards his house, nerves and desire sending a wave of butterflies through her.

Even if she wakes in the morning without his Mark on her body, the sight of Jack O’Neill trailing after her, eyes dark and lips parted, is a moment she will never, ever forget. 

It takes them a while to actually get to his bedroom. He stops to press her into the wall and kiss a line down her neck, her jaw, her lips--cataloguing each place that makes her squirm and gasp and tug at his hair. She tugs his shirt up and off his body, wanting--needing--to see his Mark, the one he’s so certain means he’s hers, the one she’s hoping is hers. 

They stumble into the cool, darkness of his bedroom and he fumbles for a light switch. First times are awkward and hiding beneath the cover of darkness smoothes things, but not this time. He wants to see every inch of her; wants to see he skin flush with desire, wants to see her mouth on his body; wants to watch the Mark on his chest swirl and quiver under her touch. 

In the soft glow of lamplight, he takes the sight of her in: shirt open and loose, exposing her bra and bare abdomen to his eyes; the top button and zip of her jeans undone and hanging loosely on her hips, the first glimpses of black lace underwear visible.

But his favorite part about seeing her in his bedroom, looking well on her way to being as wrecked as he is, is the way she looks at him: eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen with  _his_  kisses, and the hungry way her eyes alternately shift from his eyes to his mouth to his Mark. 

She presses herself into his arms, nuzzles against his jaw and kisses him, softly, suddenly shy. “We don’t have to--It’s possible I’m not even your Soulmate.” Her fingers trace over the swirling lines of his Mark and he gasps, gripping her hip tightly. 

“You are,” he answers gruffly. He can  _feel_  it. There’s a connection here, something he’s never felt with anyone before, something that feels settled and right; like he’d been slowly suffocating until she’d come along and offered him fresh air. He knows she’s the one; she’s his Soulmate. 

She looks up at him, half-naked in his arms, and he has to kiss her again, has to taste her. He walks them back, stumbling, to his bed. They push at each other’s clothes, the articles falling to the floor (he takes a moment to appreciate the sight of her blouse and jeans on his bedroom floor; takes an even bigger moment to appreciate the sight of her in her simple bra and lace panties). They laugh when his jeans get tangled around his ankles and it sends him sprawling into the mattress. 

 

She had forgotten that sex could be as fun and laughter-filled as it was serious, especially for a first time. She feels safe and at ease and forgets about the anxiety of waking up without his Mark on her body in the morning.

Their laughter dies down when he strokes a trembling hand down the soft curve of her cheek. She tilts her head into his touch and her eyes flutter closed for a moment, nose brushing along the inside of his wrist. 

“Hey,” he says, grounding her in the moment. She grins and opens her eyes, nerves settling down. This is  _fun_. It’s  _easy_. It’s right. 

“Hi,” she answers, groaning when his free hand palms her bare thigh, squeezing and pulling her leg up over his hip. It brings their bodies together and it’s warmth and contact and something--perhaps the Bond between them--hums pleasantly, happily, beneath their skin. 

He kisses her again, just because he can’t get enough of her. She is eager in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, rolling and pulling him on top of her, enjoying the heavy weight of him on her. 

They lose their skivvies with trembling hands and the first touch of his tongue to her body--her breasts, her abdomen, her hips, her thighs, the back of her knee, the curve of her ankle--sends her keening, his name groaned out in a long, dragged out, “ _Jack...”_

He chases the sound of his name in her mouth with searching kisses, tongue in her mouth and hand on her breast. Sam pushes against him, rolling them so she straddles either side of his hips. His arousal is heavy and thick between her legs, teasing her slick opening. 

She wants to taste him, wants to feel the weight of him against her tongue and swallow him down; wants to lick him into a frenzy and feel him lose control. But more than that, she wants him inside of her. It’s been an excruciating foreplay--his tongue and mouth on her body, drawing pleasure from every nerve-ending in her body. It’s electric and heavy and he looks at her with dark eyes and grasping fingers like he’s terrified if he lets her go, she’ll disappear. 

She takes him in her hand and guides him inside of her. They both groan at the sensation and she shivers and shudders, falling forward, hand covering the Mark on his shoulder and creeping over his chest. At her touch, his hips jerk and thrust upwards, hard and visceral, pressing hard into her. She likes the reaction and replaces her hand with her tongue, tonguing at the dark mark on his skin. 

He flips her over and moves his hips against her, pounding into her. Her touch wakes something deep and primal within him and he  _knows, knows, knows_  the woman under him, the woman he is buried deep inside of, is  _his_. And, he thinks blindly, he is  _hers._  

They move together in perfect rhythm, hips pressing and lifting, hands exploring and scraping across skin--creating a mark all their own, her nails scratching down his shoulder blades, his mouth sucking a mark against her neck. 

Sweat beads along the small of his back and she pulls him inside of her deeper, tighter. He kisses her, needs to be connected her in every way possible, and when she leans up and presses a kiss to his Mark, he reaches a thick finger between them and presses against her clit. 

The combination builds at the base of their spine and they crash over into their climax together, tipping into a haze of pleasure that’s blinding. It’s never--ever--been like this for either of them.

They curl into each other, panting and satiated and slick with sweat and fluids. He drags a finger lazily against her sensitive sex, mixing her fluids and his against her flesh. She shivers and rocks back into him. “Jack,” she breathes out.

He covers her abdomen with a wide hand and spoons behind her, buries his nose in her neck and kisses her, breathing against her. She strokes her hand over his forearm. 

“Sam?”

She turns in his arms, blinking up at him and smiling softly when he strokes his fingers through her hair. The myth is that a reciprocating Mark should appear within a few minutes after climax and she’s terrified that minutes will pass without confirmation that what they felt seconds ago was  _real_. 

“If I’m not your Soulmate, we can just leave this night here. In this room.”

He cocks a disbelieving eyebrow at her, absentmindedly stroking over her skin, the need to be connected to her physically in some way. “And you think we’d be okay with that? Leaving it in the room?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head against his chest, curling into him and throwing an arm and leg over him, staying close. “No,” she admit, words muffled against his chest, her lips brushing over his Mark, the  _S_  in the center of the dark ink swirling and stretching under her touch. 

“You’re mine,” he says against the top of her head, breath blowing against her soft blonde hair. “I can feel it.”

She holds him tight and hopes he’s right and they lay their silently, waiting, waiting waiting. 

He pushes her shoulder gently, rolls her beneath him and hovers over her body. “Ready?” he asks, lips grazing over hers. She kisses him back in answer, fierce and passionate, tongue sweeping into his mouth to taste him again. 

He breaks away with a soft  _pop_  and nuzzles under her jaw. Their eyes sweep over her body together, searching, searching, searching for a sign of darkening skin. He takes a moment to appreciate her breasts before nuzzling at her neck and shoulder, overturning her forearm and palms. He presses a kiss to each blank expanse of skin. The heartbeat he can feel thundering beneath her skin is rapid and fast and every second they don’t discover her Mark is another second she panics.

And then, after kissing the jut of her hip, he sees it.

He groans and scoots down the bed, mouth and fingers pressing insistently on the dark, swirling ink on the outside of her right thigh. “Sam,” he says reverently, eyes shining. She lets out a little sob, eyes wide with shock and relief, her hands winding through his hair and holding his mouth to her thigh. 

The Mark appears more quickly the more he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to her skin. As the Mark sharpens, he lets out a bark of laughter, scrambling up her body and kissing her soundly. 

“Look at it, Sam,” he says, proudly. 

She kisses him again and then twists her leg, looking down at the Mark. It’s a chess piece--she knows it well: a Queen, the most important piece on the board; the protector, defender, and aggressor of the board. In the center of the Mark is a curling  _J_  and she trembles at the sight. 

She  _belongs_  to someone; to  _him._

The smile on his face is so big his cheeks hurt (and he can’t remember the last time he felt this alive; felt this happy). She leans back against his pillows and looks up at him, body bare for his view and leg twisted so her Mark is easily visible. 

He palms her thigh and grins down at her when she shivers at the feel of his thumb pressing against the center of her Mark, fingernail catching on the curve of the  _J_  in her skin. 

Arms looping over his neck and dragging him over her body, she kisses him soundly, legs coming up to wrap around his waist. “Round two?” she mumbles against his mouth, feeling his arousal pressing against her.

He presses her Mark in tandem with rubbing his cock against her wet, slick clit. She yelps and her eyes go wide, skin flushing. He grins wolfishly at her. 

“Oh yeah,” he murmurs. “Round two.”


End file.
